The Silvering Shore

The moon is a pale collector of sighs, Sifting through the drift of the Atlantic’s long breath, Where the sand holds the ghost of every footprint And the salt is the memory of things we have lost.

A silvering line divides the dark from the deeper dark, As the tide pulls the marrow from the ancient shore, A rhythmic hunger that knows no satiation, Leaving only the polished bone of a shell behind.

Between the stars and the froth, a silence settles, Not the absence of sound, but the presence of time, The slow, cold architecture of the coming night, Where we are only the witnesses of the water’s return.